PotterLock Down
by KartheyM
Summary: Harry returns to Hogwarts and once again someone is after him-but WITHOUT magic, so it's not You-Know-Who! After being falsely framed and suspended, Harry receives help from a London consulting detective with keen observation skills. As the threat increases, Sherlock might be the only one to clear Harry's name-and keep him alive. NO SLASH! *Please review if you read and like it!*
1. Chapter 1: The Visitor From Wiltshire

The sun was shining as the cab pulled away from the inn at the small village in Wiltshire.

"Where to, sah?" barked the boisterous cabbie. He stroked the edges of his walrus mustaches and glanced at the greasy black head behind him.

"It's a lonely road, I'm afraid," replied his passenger. "Not much in the part of the country where I'm headed. I don't even think it has a name."

The cab driver laughed. "Never fear, sah! I've been driving 'round these 'ills since I first learned 'ow, I know the Wiltshire valleys like the back o' me 'and! D'ye know some sort o' landmark, then? Some 'eading I could use?"

The greasy man sighed and sank lower in his seat. "Just drive; and do be quiet about it. I've come a long ways. Take the east road until you reach the only house in the area. You'll know it when you see it."

The driver turned and stared straight ahead. Soon, his passenger began to softly snore.

The passenger did not stir till the cab rolled to a stop. The vague silhouette of a large manor was barely visible through the thick fog of the valley. The short, pale man with the greasy black hair disembarked and placed a roll of notes in the driver's hand.

"Cor!" the man spluttered, his red face blanching ghostly white as he realized his passenger's destination. "I take it ye believe in ghosts, then?"

The man smiled wryly, "Not typically; I've done my fair share of impersonating one. Why do you ask?"

The driver jabbed a beefy finger in the direction of the spires that seemed to sprout from the gloom itself. "They say only those who believe c'n see the 'ouse yonder. Many have tried to reach it, but when they got there, the 'ouse was gone. So," he leaned out and squinted hard. "C'n ye see it? Is it there?"

The man took two steps and saw the firm gravel of a long walk materialize out of the mulchy mud. He smiled. "Yes," he answered the cabbie. "I can."

The driver wordlessly cranked the ignition and rumbled away from the area as fast as he could.

The man continued up the walk till he came to the gate emblazoned with the family name. His fingers tingled as he placed a hand upon the iron shield emblazoned with the family crest. A sharp edge on one of the points sliced his finger, and the man drew his hand back with a grimace. His blood beaded bright red upon the black metal. Slowly, the gates creaked inward, opening to allow him entrance. He continued his calm gait up to the house.

Two people watched the man's progress with much anxiety, but whether it was over his arrival or because of it, remained to be seen. The man with long silver hair and piercing grey eyes frowned. "He passed through the gate," he remarked.

His wife smoothed the tresses of her dark hair streaked with silver. "Then is he—you know—the one He said would come?"

The lord of the manor shrugged his shoulders. "He must be; there is His blood in him. Not just anyone can get past the spells on those gates, remember."

"But why is he here?"

"Hush, my dear. He is at the door."

The short man with the greasy black hair and the wide, black eyes smiled at the lord of the manor.

"Charmed," he said politely.

They all stared at him. Then the master of the house recovered. "Forgive my manners," he said. "I am Lucius Malfoy, and this is my wife, Narcissa." He paused briefly. "And you are?"

The dark man gave him a tight-lipped smile and—very deliberately—stepped over the threshold of the house.

Such a shriek as could hardly be termed human raked over everyone's ears. In a whirlwind of black crepe she descended upon him, positively wild with rage. "Filthy Muggle!" she screamed. "How dare you come into this house unbidden! I'll tickle you with curses! I'll make you wish—"

"Bella!" Lucius barked, "Be still!"

She retreated behind her sister, and the three residents of the Manor stared wide-eyed at the oily, pale man, who merely sneered at them. He turned his back on the three wizards, gazing around the great hall of the once-great estate. "Hmm, yes," he mused as if to himself, "it was wise of you to contact me."

Narcissa and Bellatrix both glanced sidelong at the lord of the manor.

"There must be some mistake," Lucius insisted. "I never called—"

The man fixed him with a black stare. "I wasn't talking to you," he snapped. He turned and continued through the house.

Bellatrix apparated in front of him, brandishing her wand. "Is that any way to treat the master of the house?" she hissed.

He grinned at her. "Oh, I like her a lot!" he mused.

"Who are you?" Narcissa demanded behind him.

The pale man turned and looked at her slowly. "Why, don't you know? He never told you?"

"Who never told?" Why did such dread settle over the house in this strange Muggle's presence?

Suddenly his attention was elsewhere. "He said that he would meet me here; has he not arrived yet?"

Lucius followed the strange visitor. "Who?"

"_Send him to me._" The voice echoed from the very heart of the house—the last voice anyone wanted to hear.

The man grinned at their horrified expressions.

"Who are you?" Bellatrix gasped. "He hates Muggles!"

The man laughed, "Well, one can't really choose the family one has, unfortunately." He proceeded into the great hall, where the Dark One was waiting for him.

"My name is Moriarty; James Moriarty, and I'm here to see my cousin Tom."

* * *

James sat at the long, black table in the dining hall of Malfoy Manor. Across from him sat the Dark Lord, Voldemort—Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr. The two men studied each other silently.  
"You never told me just how we were related," Voldemort mused.

Moriarty kept his gaze fixed on the pale, deformed face before him."Your father, Tom Sr., had a cousin Wilhelmina Riddle who married Seamus Moriarty—my grandfather. That makes us third cousins, if you're wondering."

Voldemort placed his gnarled fingertips against each other."I never paid much attention to that side of the family."

"Hm, yes; that explains why we never met at any family gatherings. Anyway," James made an impatient movement with his hand, "now that we've dispensed with pleasantries, let's get down to business."

"Agreed."

"You called me because, as you stated, you had a problem of the most delicate nature."

"I should have finished the boy long ago, when I had the chance."

"Ho-hum," James rolled his eyes, "we all regret something at some point in our lives. The real question is, what do you plan to do about it?"

"My plan from the beginning was to destroy the ones who have caused me such pain, and use the most powerful curse in existence to kill the one person who could conceivably stop me."

Moriarty inclined an eyebrow in unconcealed contempt. "Of course, you see as well as I do why you can't just dispose of your problems with Avada Kedavra—oh yes, don't look so shocked cousin; I make a point of researching every case that comes my way." James smiled and assumed a posture mirroring Voldemort's own. "Besides, these Chosen Hero types are all one. Kill him off to save your skin and he becomes a larger-than-life martyr and soon you're fighting an army of people who want to be just like him! No, Tom—what you want is to prolong the torture for as long as possible." James placed both hands on the table and lowered his voice as his eyes gleamed maliciously. "What you want is to be able to destroy your enemy by inches, disintegrating him into tiny little pieces that are not enshrined, they're scattered to the wind and ground into the dirt. And then, when finally his miserable existence comes to an end, you want people to be lining up to spit on his grave!"

It could be said that a shiver of something close to pleasure passed over the Dark Lord's body—the closest thing to pleasure that had ever happened to him.  
"Yes!" he moaned hungrily.

James sat back, wholly satisfied. "Congratulations, cousin; I happen to be in the business of making a hero's worst nightmares come true."

Voldemort was so excited he was almost panting. "You will do this to the boy?"

James smirked, "I may have thought of an idea or two on my way over. Of course, I would have to get into this Hogwash place of yours—"

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is hardly a joking matter, James."

"Hogwarts, then; get me in there, and I can begin work right away."

Voldemort resumed his keen stare that pierced right into James' soul—a far more vacant and barren place than his mind.  
"How do you intend to infiltrate Hogwarts without any magic?"

Moriarty mouthed the word _magic _and laughed out loud. "Dear cousin Tom! You have no idea what we Muggles are capable of, do you? I don't need magic at all. I make my own 'magic.' You'll see."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you to all you excited peeps! I promise, you ain't seen nothing yet! ;-D -KM**


	2. Chapter 2: Back-To-School Special

The thestrals trotted easily through the woods, drawing the carriage into the courtyard of Hogwarts. Harry Potter alighted, ready for a new term in the practice of wizardry. Professors materialized around the courtyard—McGonagall, with her tight-drawn mouth and tall pointed hat; Snape, looking as black as a shadow and animated as a corpse; Professor Lupin, pale and drawn but ready with a smile beneath his mustache; and the nasally voice of Flitwick emanated from some resonant alcove.

Harry grinned and waved at the hulking Hagrid, surrounded—as ever—with the nervous knot of first-years. They glanced at him, a few of them nudging their neighbors and whispering to one another. Harry knew what they were saying: "That's him—he's the one everybody's worried about—They say he's been marked by the Dark Lord—trouble follows him wherever he goes..."

The stuttering horn overhead heralded the arrival of the Weasleys. Harry looked up at the chassis of the flying car belonging to Mr. Weasley; it was none the worse for it's encounter with the Whomping Willow not too long ago. The twins emerged first and took their time about it. Harry could see that they had each grown several inches over the holidays. There was Ron—and Hermione? Miss Granger came out flushed and grinning. Harry imagined her squashed in that back seat with the three Weasley boys. How could one so meticulous stand such an arrangement?

"Ahem!" Someone behind him cleared his throat.

Harry turned and discovered a first-year student staring at him pensively. "Yes?"

"Are you the Harry Potter everyone's talking about?"

And so it began again; Harry sighed. "Yes, I am."

"So is it true?" the boy's grey-green eyes seemed to stare right into Harry's brain.

Harry blinked, "Is what true?"

"All the stories people talk about; of your last few years here."

Harry shrugged; he'd had a busy, excitement-filled life ever since Hagrid took him away from the Dursleys and told him, "You're a wizard, Harry." He bobbed his head at the boy. "Probably a lot of them are."

The boy grinned. His blond curls danced in the sudden gust of a chill wind. "I heard that in your first year, you made a student vanish because he wouldn't leave you alone, and he was never found again."

Harry's face scrunched in confusion. "What?" His first year had been spent with Leviosa and Accio spells—he was only now learning vanishing spells. "No, that's not—"

"I heard that one time, you accidentally poisoned the kitchen's stock of flour, so that every time they baked a cake, everybody got sick."

"That never hap—"

"I also heard that during a Quidditch match, you hexed everyone's broom to do the opposite of what they wanted, just for the fun of it." Harry rolled his eyes; this boy had more stock in blind trust in rumors of scandal than Rita Skeeter! "Look, you! I don't know who you've been talking to, but I would never do anything like that!"

The boy smirked. "Sure, not if it would ruin your chances!" With that cryptic comment, he ran off.

"Harry!" Ron's voice banished the cutting words as Harry found himself surrounded by Hermione and the Weasleys. Everyone was talking and laughing at once, just like old times.

"—never did find my rat, but there was this one—"

"—ever tell you about the time Fred and I went—"

"—best joke we ever pulled that day was switching out Dad's Floo Powder—"

Hermione grinned and squeezed his hand. Harry sighed and smiled; he was home.

He entered the grand foyer of Hogwarts as old friends found each other and headed to their respective dormitories. Harry took the shifting staircases to the Gryffindor wing to drop off his suitcase. When he came down, Hagrid was standing on the staircase leading to the great hall.

"Well, Harry!" the giant boomed. "How are ye, m'lad?"

Harry wrapped both arms as far around Hagrid's waist as he could manage, which wasn't far at all. "I am well, Hagrid; how are you?"

"Fair enough," the groundskeeper replied. "Though I seem to have, er, misplaced one of the new students—Emory Harville, his name was; have you seen 'im?"

Harry shook his head, "I'm afraid I have no idea whom you are talking about."

Hagrid pulled his beard, a sure sign he was worried. "Ah, sure you do; I saw you talkin' with 'im earlier. Blond chap, with shifty eyes."

Harry recalled the strange conversation. "I'm afraid I didn't see him after we parted ways."

"Ah well," the large man sighed, "He might've just wandered off. If y'see him, point out the great hall, would ye? 'e's got to be Sorted to have a place to stay."

Harry nodded. "I will, Hagrid. See you there."

"Take care, Harry."

That evening, Headmaster Dumbledore greeted the new students and Harry witnessed a Sorting—but Emory Harville was not among the first-years. Harry looked for the curly blond head, but among all the students, none were the mysterious, vague student only Harry seemed to have spoken with. He tried asking a few of the others he'd seen nearby while talking with Emory, but no one even seemed to know his name. Harry shuddered; did the boy even exist? He had to; Hagrid knew about him.

By the time classes began the next day, word had somehow gotten around that Harry Potter had been the last person to see Emory Harville. Draco Malfoy capitalized on this moment of suspicion to it's fullest capacity.

"Hey Snotter!" he needled, flanked as always by faithful sidekicks Crabbe and Goyle. "Heard the news about Harville. Rum luck, wouldn't you say?"

Harry didn't respond; Draco spoke very loudly, and though his words were oddly sympathetic, Harry knew a dig was coming.

"Heard he was asking you a lot of questions, Rotter," Draco went on. "Did you get rid of him because he was too close to the truth?" The students nearby fell silent to watch the exchange.

Harry turned. "The truth about what?" he asked evenly.

Draco smirked; he had Harry right where he wanted him. "Come on, Harry," he goaded, "you know the rumors: the stories about what you can do, what you have done." He grinned. "So what did you do to Harville when he was asking all those questions?"

Harry tensed. "I didn't do anything." He glared at Draco.

The tall, light-haired bully leaned closer to Harry, inviting a fight. "Come on, that much of a bother and you didn't do anything? Ha! You must have done something to defend yourself."

Harry stared at Draco for several seconds, till Professor Snape appeared. "What have we here?" he intoned somberly. "Students should be in their classrooms or they will receive tardy marks." The tall, gaunt man did not have to raise his voice, and every student felt the chill of his words. The commons area lay vacant in a matter of minutes.


	3. Chapter 3: Look Who's Coming To Dinner

In Potions class, Harry could finally get the chance to focus on something and take his mind off of Draco's constant teasing. He carefully measured out the ingredients and followed the directions precisely. Professor Snape made his way around the classroom, dispensing correction, it seemed, to almost every student. "Master Donovan, the dollop of greenroot is to be added when your potion reaches a boil, or you will end up giving your subject warts on his face instead of the cure for a toothache. Pour it out and try again. Master Longbottom, do not dare mix halfpenny truerose with extract of bulgum, unless you want to obliterate this school and everyone in it. You there, what are you doing?" He snatched a vial from a student in the act of adding the substance to the simmering pot before him.

"Can't you read?" Snape berated him. "This is snakesblood; it has nothing to do with recalling memories! Try it again. Master Malfoy—have you forgotten something?" Harry glanced up as flames shot out of Draco's potion pot, consuming the liquid inside and leaving a layer of black soot all over everything in the vicinity—including Draco. Harry couldn't restrain a small snort. Instantly, Snape was upon him. "Does this class amuse you, Potter? Let us see what you can tell me about your potion."

Harry glanced over his directions to make sure he hadn't missed anything. "Yes, sir. It is a powder that, when placed on any substance, causes it to grow and expand, very useful in encouraging growth in plants."

"Taking up gardening now, Potter?" Draco jibed—just as another fireball erupted and spread soot everywhere a second time.

"That's ten points off from Slytherin," Snape took vindictive pleasure in announcing, "And since Harry Potter seems to be the only one in this class to successfully complete his potion, twenty points for Gryffindor!" Harry grinned with relief as he spooned the glittering powder into a small bag and rinsed out his potions pot. He left the bag on the table and moved on to the next class.

Ron and Hermione caught up with him in the hallway.

"Bloody hell," Ron sighed, "I've never wanted to be out of that class so badly in my life! It was like I'd suddenly forgotten how to make a simple whistling potion. At one time, there was supposed to be a lace of fog, but I ended up with a brace of frogs!"

Hermione frowned at him, "Then why didn't Snape catch you and take points away from us like Slytherin?"

Just then, the pockets of Ron's robe croaked. He shrugged as Harry chuckled. Hermione stared slack-jawed as Ron produced the freshly-conjured frogs and let them outside into the grass. "Fred and George would have wanted those frogs," he sighed as they kept walking.

"It's probably all right that they don't know about them," Hermione assured him.

"What about you?" Ron suddenly demanded of her. "Did your potion work? Snape never said anything about it."

"That's because I wasn't really making anything," Hermione confessed as her cheeks flushed. "It was supposed to be a dreamcasting potion, but it didn't react to any of my incantations, so basically I ended up with a pot of warm, colored water." She turned to her friends. "You're really lucky today, Harry." Harry sighed. He did not feel so lucky, but it was rather fortunate to begin the term on Snape's good side. Harry only wondered how long it would last.

At the evening meal, Harry felt a jog at his elbow. Fred winked at him, while George leaned over from the other side of the table. "Hey Harry," he muttered. "Look who's come to dinner." Harry glanced at the head table and saw the professors joined by Cornelius Fudge and a few Inquisitors. "Wonder if they're here because of that missing student," Fred mused. "Why would they need the Ministry if Magic, then?" George scoffed. "Ooh, look. One of them's ready for dessert already!" Sure enough, one of the Inquisitors pushed aside his empty dinner plate and pulled the dish of gelatin toward himself. The rotund man dug in with a relish while the Weasley boys entertained those at the Gryffindor table with exaggerated caricatures of the man's manner. Harry laughed quietly with the rest—till he heard Professor McGonagall cry out, "Merciful heavens!"

A few others gasped and the hubbub in the dining hall died as the Inquisitor suddenly rose up onto his feet, red-faced and clutching at his rapidly-swelling throat, and collapsed against the table. At once, every professor rose and Dumbledore said something while gesturing toward the plates of gelatin lining the top of the table. Snape produced his wand and waved it over the jellies, whereupon they all exploded. Harry watched the whole scenario, mystified; what had been in those jellies and why was someone trying to harm the administrators of the school? Whispers and rumors and theories abounded, but the knot in Harry's stomach that had been growing ever since Emory disappeared tightened when Dumbledore found him outside the dining hall and asked him to step into the Headmaster's office.

Fudge was there, along with McGonagall, Snape, and a few other professors.

"This is the boy, Minister Fudge," Snape said, "he's the one who made the swelling powder in potions class today."

"Master Potter, eh?" the bustling, red-faced man glared at him from a respectful distance. "It would be you; what have you got to say for yourself?"

Harry blinked and glanced at Dumbledore. "I'm sorry—"

"Well you should be!" Fudge snapped. "Do you have any idea how much trouble your prank caused?"

"Prank?" Harry echoed.

"Harry," Dumbledore explained gently, "Snape revealed your swelling powder in the gelatin served to all of the teachers. It's what made Councilor Barton's throat swell and choke him to death."

"But—" Harry's mind whirled; it was happening again! Why couldn't the Dark Lord's minions just leave him in peace for once? "I made the potion in class, yes—but then I left it there!"

"Where?" Snape asked, a thin smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"On the table next to the burner."

"Master Potter, when I prepared for my next class," Snape replied, "there was no powder." He glanced at Professor McGonagall. "Perhaps you can show is what you found in the kitchens?"

Minerva produced a small bag identical to the one Harry had used. "This was discovered near the table where the jellies were prepared."

Fudge almost smiled. "Is that yours, Master Potter?"

Harry could think of nothing else to say. "I did not do this! I would never think of endangering the life of a teacher!"

"What about a student, then?" one of the other Inquisitors demanded. "Do you happen to know the whereabouts of one Emory Harville?"

Harry sucked in a deep breath. "No more than any other student," he answered.

"Oh come now, Potter, we've all heard the rumors!" Fudge groused. "First prompting a student to disappear, then causing the death of a visiting Inquisitor—I'm afraid disciplinary action is in order. Harry Potter, you are hereby displaced from Hogwarts on probationary leave. Your wand will remain in the care of the school, and you must depart for London by conventional means while this investigation is underway. Do not attempt to use magic at any time during the investigation. If evidence is discovered to exonerate you, we will arrange your return."

Harry's gut twisted; he'd only just arrived, and he was being sent away!

Fudge smiled in a self-satisfied way. "Effective immediately!" he finished—not that it made any difference.

So it was that Harry departed Hogwarts for London without much circumstance. He was grateful that Hermione and Ron watched him leave, but from a distance; he knew they would not stop at figuring out the mystery, but he could not bear having to say goodbye just now.

A pale man with greasy black hair watched from the window of a deserted tower. He smiled as Harry moved beyond the protective boundary of Hogwarts.

"He's all yours," he whispered.


	4. Chapter 4: The Dementor's Kiss

Harry entered the underground tube that would take him from the edges of the East End to the heart of the city, where the Ministry of Magic had allotted him a small flat to stay while they investigated the goings-on at Hogwarts. After so many years of riding the Hogwarts Express and rubbing shoulders with fellow wizards, being so completely surrounded by Muggles in such close quarters transported him back to his early years, trotting along in the firm grip of Aunt Petunia as she ran errands.

Harry found an open bench and took his seat. The doors hissed shut, and the car hurtled down the track in the narrow tunnel. The lights flashing by lulled Harry into a daze. He leaned against the window, totally relaxed. Sounds around him faded as the car cruised on.

He saw the Dementor just before he realized his body had gone cold. The Muggles around him didn't even flinch. The spectre floated in front of Harry, and he felt a pulling sensation dragging his whole body, his life energy, into the gaping maw of the Dementor. Harry was slipping, but his incapacity for magic left him vulnerable. He barely noticed the car come to a stop as the people around him shuffled off and on. He was nearly dead...

Someone cried out.  
Harry heard the voice just as warmth and sound returned and he woke with a gasp. A man sat next to him, in a wool overcoat, and the Dementor still hovered over them, having been forcibly diverted from its victim. The man stared at the Dementor with keen blue eyes. A smile played about his lips.

"Well now," he murmured, "That's interesting; what have we here?"

The Dementor shrieked at him and Harry braced himself, wondering what exactly he might do if the Dementor started to drain this man who had saved his life. Just then, the car pulled to a stop and the doors opened. The Dementor flew right at the man's face with an ear-splitting scream, and was gone. The man stumbled against Harry, and he could feel the iciness of the man's touch. The Dementor was gone, but the man looked even paler than before, and he shivered.  
"Let's get you out of here, eh?" the man mumbled through stiff lips.  
Harry and the man disembarked, and Harry could see particles of frost already forming on the man's thick, dark hair.  
A hand on the other side caused Harry to flinch. Instantly, the man was reaching in front of him to release the hold of one of the other passengers who blindly grasped at Harry's arm.  
"Leave off," the man ordered.

Behind him, a woman in a small knit cap came up, her tiny shoes clicking against the pavement.  
"Hello, Harry," she said sweetly, "come with me."

"Not today!" the man shielded Harry with his body and encouraged him  
out of the crowd.  
They emerged at street level and the tall man guided Harry to a small table outside a cafe.  
"Sit."  
Harry did. The man took the seat opposite him.  
"Right then," the man began briskly. "That was by far the most disturbing tube ride I've ever taken. You're a young man with a very  
singular scar the likes of which I can think of only three ways you might have gotten it, and none of them are plausible at your age and social class. You seemed unfazed by that thing that tried to kill you, and yet you showed more surprise at my intervention. The woman called you Harry, yet I could tell you trusted me-a man who just happened to sit in the seat next to you on the subway-more than you trusted her.  
Would you mind explaining any of these things to me?"  
Harry watched the man; his perceptions were as keen as a detective, yet he made no mention of working with or for the government at all.  
Just behind him, he saw a tall man dressed all in black suddenly fold his newspaper and lock eyes with him. Another dark-clad man came out of the cafe and scanned the tables, stopping when he spotted Harry. Harry grasped the man's hand.  
"I'll explain everything; but we have to run!"  
The man jumped to his feet and pulled Harry down a side street. "This way! I know where to go!"

Harry and the man dodged down side streets and through alleys, shaking their pursuit. Finally, the pair slowed, and Harry saw the man stumble against the wall. His breathing was raspy and very labored. Harry saw the fingernails turning a dangerous shade of blue.  
"Sir?" he stepped around to face the man.  
The blue eyes came up and met his. "Have to get... Two-Two... One-B... Baker S-Street! Two blocks down, one North-"  
His eyes rolled back, and he would gave fallen if Harry had not been there to catch him.  
For the first time in his life, Harry Potter hailed a cab. The compact black vehicle pulled up to the curb.  
"Where to, gov?" the cabbie asked.  
"221B Baker Street," Harry answered. "Hurry!"

* * *

John had just settled down with his laptop to compose a new entry for the blog. Mrs. Hudson was down at the sandwich shop. Sherlock had stalked off to get something-or so he said. John never could exactly figure out what went on in that head under the great floppy mass of hair his friend possessed. He had a few hours of uninterrupted quiet to gather his thoughts.

**"After pondering for a while whether or not-"**

_RIIIIING! RIIIING! RIING-RING! BAM-BAM-BAM! RIIING! RIIING!_

Someone was alternately punching the doorbell and clanking the knocker. From the activity, it might be Sherlock, in trouble yet again. John waited, fingers resting on the keys. Let the man stew in the fruits of his own stupidity for a minute or two.

The door creaked open and a strange voice cried, "Hello there!"  
John rolled his eyes; not Sherlock, then. One of his Network? He shoved the laptop onto the ottoman and clumped down the stairs.  
"Yes I'm here; what do you-"

John Watson stopped and several expletives dropped out of his open mouth. Sherlock looked to be in the final stages of a stroke; his tall, gaunt form was pale as death, and leaned heavily on the shoulder of a dark-haired young man in glasses.


	5. Chapter 5: Getting Acquainted

***A/N: To all you lovely reviewers: THANKS A BUNCH FOR THE ENCOURAGEMENT, I REALLY NEEDED IT! :) To those with questions:**

**-There is a _very special _reason Sherlock could see the Dementor... and it has NOTHING to do with him being magic. He's Muggle, I promise. I did NOT mess with canon in that respect. (and *SPOILER*: John won't be able to see them...) That reason will be revealed (in true Moffat form) nearer to the very end, so bear with me!**

**-As far as timelines, I figure this happens a few years down the road from Series 3 of Sherlock... because I decided to throw a reference to "Mary and the baby" in the next chapter... but really, it's more like AU from the end of Series 2, because the whole fall-and-return thing happened, but not the extreme situations of Series 3, exactly... and John is back on Baker Street... so maybe I won't mention Mary, because she really doesn't factor into this story anyway...**

**As far as the HP timeline, I've established Harry at about seventeen... so, sixth year? But I don't really get much into making specific references to events (mostly because it's been a couple years since I last read the books) so that's pretty much AU too. Sorry to disappoint... but trust me, I think y'all will like it! -KM**

* * *

"What happened?" John immediately thrust his arm under Sherlock's other shoulder and supported him.

The other man gave him a sidelong glance.

"If it's all the same I'd rather not-"

John began easing Sherlock's body up the stairs. "I'm a doctor and his friend, you can trust me. Now what happened? Where did you find him?"

The young man waited to let John through the door first. "Find him? No, he found me..."

"In here," John led Sherlock and the young man into the main area of the flat and helped ease the long, lanky body onto the sofa. Immediately, he stripped off Sherlock's coat and rolled up his sleeves, unbuttoning his collar. "No puncture wounds or powder on the orifices, so it wasn't drugs." John checked his pupils, which did not respond-almost as if everything had just frozen. He continued asking questions without taking his eyes off his friend. "Did you see him drinking anything that might have been poisoned?"

The young man sat in the armchair across from him. He seemed as concerned as John was, but less apt to do anything about it. "It's not a poison, it's-" he hesitated. "Well, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. Normally, Muggles don't-"

Sherlock was still unresponsive. John could barely feel a fluttering pulse-and the young man who had helped him home was not improving the situation at all. "Excuse me? What did you just call me? And what aren't you telling me? What did this to him?"

The young man ran a slender hand through his hair. "It's, well-They're called Dememtors, and they steal your life energy." His words came quickly, as if he knew John wouldn't believe him.

John blinked, unsure if he'd heard right. "Steal your...Right then, who the hell are you?"

The young man answered candidly enough. "Harry; Harry Potter-you don't know me?" He seemed puzzled by the realization.

John shot him a look. "Is there any reason why I should?"

Harry shrugged. "No, I suppose not." He looked back at the unconscious man. "He seemed to. I just assumed that as his...friend, you might."

John stood and began pacing. He pointed to the figure on the couch. "Do you know him?"

Harry shook his head. "No; I've never met him before in my life."

"That's Sherlock Holmes, Harry: super-detective and world-class pain-in-the-arse! We've worked together for five years now and there's still a lot he doesn't tell me. So what's happening to him now?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm not sure. I could have sworn the Dementor tried to attack him when it couldn't get me. The best thing we can do is get him warm, I think."

John set about gathering as many blankets and quilts as he could find. Harry helped spread them over Sherlock and tuck them in tight. As soon as they finished, John reached out to check the warmth of his forehead. Suddenly, Sherlock's body jerked stiff, and his eyes flew open with a long, guttural scream.

John leaped backward about a foot. "Bloody hell!"

Harry jumped in to brace Sherlock's shoulders as the detective began to thrash violently. "Hold him down!" He cried. "He's coming around, we just have to keep him still. Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes can you hear me?"

John joined him, working to keep the blankets firmly tucked."Sherlock? Sher-" John released his shoulders as Sherlock's body went limp.

Harry sighed with a note of relief. "The worst is over. He'll wake up soon." He paused to glance around the room. "Would you mind, can I use the washroom?"

"Erm, yeah," John couldn't take his eyes off of the sleeping detective. "Down the stairs, on the left."

"Thanks." Harry headed that direction.

The house was perilously still for several moments while John stood vigil over the sofa.

"Rry... P'trrr...Hrr..."

Sherlock gradually began to stir and mutter to himself. John felt as if he were hearing the mutterings of a psychiatric patient.

"Hurry..." Sherlock murmured as his head lolled back and forth. "Harry... John, Harry!"

"What?" John leaned forward as Sherlock's eyes fluttered slightly open, revealing the rolling pupil. "John-Harry... W'zid..."

John fought to understand. "What about Harry? What are you trying to

say?"

Sherlock panted, fighting for coherency. "Harry... Wizzer...

Wizz...erd..."

John's jaw tightened as he considered what his friend was trying to

say. "You're telling me..Are you saying that this boy you've brought here... Is a wizard? An actual wizard?"

Holmes let his eyelids drop. "Yes..." he sighed, and slowly eased his body into a sitting position. He blinked slowly, as one rousing from a deep slumber. His eyes roved the room. "Where is he? Where's the boy?" his voice was stronger now, regaining some of it's old edge.

John was still trying to make sense of what Sherlock had just said. "He had to use the loo," he told him. "I'm sorry, did you really mean it?"

"Mean what? What did I mean?"

"What you said."

"What I said when?"

"Just now; you were telling me about Harry."

"Harry?" Sherlock was staring at him now in just the way he always did when trying to think two steps ahead of him.

"That he's a..well, you know..." John stared at his friend incredulously.

Just at that moment, Harry himself appeared. He nodded at Sherlock. "You're awake; good."

John turned on him. "What circus are you from?"

Harry frowned. "Circus?"

"Yes; Sherlock obviously found you in some sort of entertainment locale; so what was it? Circus? Carnival?"

"Actually, John," interposed the detective, "we met on the tube."

John rolled his eyes. "So are you part of some troupe in town?"

Harry shook his head. "I was just in London looking for a place to stay since I was expelled from school."

"School?" John glanced the young man over. "You can't be much younger than seventeen; University, then?"

Harry bobbed his head noncommittally. "Sort of; more like a boarding school. It's called Hogwarts; have you ever heard of it?"

John shook his head. "No; what trades do they teach there?" Maybe that would shed some light on Sherlock's blunder.

Even he sensed the abrupt shift in Harry's manner. "Um, I'd rather not say."

"What are you babbling on about, John? Of course, they teach magic."

Harry was watching John's face John reacted with astonishment, Harry turned to Sherlock. "How did you know?" he asked.

In answer, Sherlock leaned forward and commandeered John's laptop. He opened a web page and showed them. "Here you have it: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

John seized the laptop and read for himself.

Even Harry was impressed. "I never knew a website like this existed. Magic and technology never mixed well."

"Of course," said Sherlock, "the site's a certified fraud. The person who made it got his intel from second- and third-hand information, hearsay, and a whole lot of shoddy guesswork. You'll see that the information passages don't actually tell you much of anything, and they lead nowhere and provide access to nil."

Harry scanned the descriptive passages. "I dunno, Sherlock; most of these passages are fairly accurate in their representation. I can tell because I"

"Or attended it yourself, yes. To anyone else, though, this site is so full of stock images it easily looks fake."

Harry smiled. "They see the pictures and it totally discredits everything else the site is saying, so that even the mention of magic is assumed false." He shook his head. "Mr. Holmes, I must say; you're a wizard in your own right!"

Sherlock assumed his deadpan expression. "Nonsense; I merely observe what other people don't. I'm a consulting detective."

"You are?" Harry's eyes held a glimmer of hope. "I think I need a

detective."

"Yes, judging from your traveling companions, the choice location, and the welcoming party, I'd say you were some kind of wanted man."

"Not yet, I'm not," Harry answered. "They're still trying to find hard evidence that it was me who did it. I think I'm being set upbut I can't imagine how or why, and now I can't find that out myself."

Sherlock steepled his fingertips and rested them against his lips. John saw the familiar gleam in his eye.

"Sherlock," he tried to interject, "you're not seriously thinking of taking the case, are you?"

Sherlock frowned in mild offense. "Obviously; why wouldn't I?"

"Because it's not really a case! No offense, Harry, but we can't really go to a magic school and expect to find hard clues and evidence. If magic really does exist, the culprit probably uses that to cover his tracks."

Sherlock grinned and leaned back on the sofa. "That does present an interesting challenge, now, doesn't it? But even a magician" he nodded at Harry, "can leave clues behind. We'll take the case!" He bounded to his feet.

"What about me?" Harry asked.

Sherlock was already throwing clothes into a valisse willy-nilly. "You'll come with us, of course; I can protect you. Can't have you gadding about London alone with ghosts and evil wizards about!"

John glanced at the nervous young man and shook his head. "Sherlock,

are you sure we can offer Harry our protection?"

Sherlock appeared with his harpoon in hand. He glanced between it and the valisse only briefly before setting it aside with a frown. "Of course we can protect him; he's probably safer with us than anywhere else in the world!"

"But Mr. Holmes," protested Harry, "I can't do any investigating, myself; what good would I be?"

"All we're asking of you, Harry," Sherlock finally halted his frenzy and addressed his new client, "is to get John and I into this Hogwarts school. If we're going to clear your name, we have to see the crime scene. Now, is everyone ready?" he looked from Harry to John.

Dr. Watson sighed and grabbed a small bag to carry a change of clothes and toiletries. Harry already had his things he brought from Hogwarts, still packed from the train ride.

Holmes was grinning like a schoolboy when they finally departed for the railway station.

"Cheer up, John," he nudged his morose partner. "This is bound to be our most exciting case yet! The game is afoot!"


	6. Chapter 6: Preparations

On the train to Dufftown, Sherlock and John listened as Harry attempted to explain Hogwarts and this strange coexistence called the Wizarding World that basically existed for the last millennium.

Harry told them about the Ministry of Magic and its rigorous dominion over all things magic ("A bit like Parliament for us normal people," Sherlock mused; "Yes, exactly," Harry agreed) and finally, about the whole situation that got him all but expelled not two days after his arrival.

John shook his head, but for once there was no logical explanation he could expect from his analytical friend. All this talk of potions and powders that actually did unnatural things, moving staircases, a school presided over by friendly ghosts, creatures like dragons and unicorns existing on the grounds of said school—John knew he would have to just accept everything or he would go mad trying to rationalize it.

To comfort himself, he thought of Mary and the new baby. To her credit, she was very excited about the prospect of going on another case with Sherlock, which made Watson feel a bit better about the whole thing. She also put the phone near the baby's ear, so John could hear the soft gurgling infant coos, which gave him the lift his spirits needed. Armed with these supports, he climbed onto the train without murmur.

At least they weren't headed somewhere magical. Harry said as much when they boarded.

"Dufftown is a good place for you to be, because it's a Muggle city, and therefore outside the jurisdiction of the Ministry," he said, "but it's close enough to Hogwarts, I hear. Normally, the magic folk will take the Hogwarts Express straight into Hogsmeade, a wizarding town, and that's only accessible by Platform 9-3/4 at King's Cross."

John couldn't stop shaking his head.

"Nine-and-three-quarters, eh?" Sherlock echoed. "My that's clever. So tell me more about this Emory Harville."

Harry shrugged. "There isn't much to tell. I didn't even know his name till after he disappeared. It was strange, though; I think... Well, I don't want to sound vain," he stopped himself.

Sherlock leaned forward with a gleam in his eye. "No, you were expressing an opinion that might end up a valuable clue. What was it? I need to know absolutely everything you think, feel, fancy you saw, or imagine; tell me what you think."

Harry nodded. "I can't say for certain, but I think someone's been spreading rumors about my first years at Hogwarts. That's why they suspected me first, because according to these rumors, I've done this before."

Sherlock leaned back and pressed his hands together. "And have you?" he asked, watching the young man closely.

"No," said Harry immediately. "I could never be that cruel."

Sherlock considered the facts. "Who would stand to gain the most from your expulsion?"

Harry drummed his fingers on the table. "Draco Malfoy, maybe; he's by far the biggest bully at the school, and he really hates me."

"Does he enjoy bullying you?"

Harry sneered, "Rather too much, I should say."

Sherlock nodded, "Then if you were expelled, there would be no one to tease, now, would there be? And if he was the one spreading rumors and making students vanish, that means all the more trouble for him once he's found out. No, I think this is beyond any of your schoolfellows. Most bullies like to keep their victims miserable but still close. There must be someone who would actually benefit, who might actually, you could say, gain power if people started believing the rumors."

Harry shivered, and Sherlock immediately glanced around for a Dementor, but the young man spoke, "There is one wizard who would like to kill me. It would not be beyond him to arrange just this kind of setup."

"You are referring to the One we spoke of before, the One who gave you that scar."

"Yes," Harry rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "Though it's true that if he were at Hogwarts, I would know, and the other teachers would know."

"And do you suppose he is aware of this?"

"Probably."

Sherlock calmly crossed his knees. "Then he might have other students or faculty in his employ. He gives them the power they need, and they do his dirty work and escape detection." He smiled. "But they haven't met me yet; oh, this is going to be fun."

Harry shook his head at the man's bizarre excitement.

Minutes later, they pulled into the station at Dufftown. Once they had collected their bags, Harry led the way along the road. "Follow me," he said. They followed the main road eastward till they came to a grouping of small buildings off to the right. A young woman waited outside one of these. She stood and waved when she saw Harry.

"Ron and I came as soon as we got your message," she murmured to him. "He's waiting inside."

Sherlock and John followed Harry and the girl inside, where they shook hands with a redheaded young man almost the same age as Harry.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," Harry said, "these are my friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Ron, Hermione, meet the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes and his friend, Dr. Watson. They've come to investigate the school and exonerate me."

They sat at a table in the corner of the room. Sherlock watched the two newcomers for a long moment. He nodded to Ron. "You come from quite a large family, correct?"

Ron squinted, "Yeah."

"Youngest? No, next-youngest—but the only younger sibling is a girl."

Ron blinked, "Yeah, but—"

Sherlock shook his head, "Among all those boys? Your mother is likely a firm woman to raise you all."

Ron nodded emphatically. "You don't know the half of it!"

"No, but by the state of that jumper, I would guess at least four siblings wore it ahead of you, and yet you sit straight instead of slumping, which suggests that you're no longer the youngest, but you have a younger sibling to look after. You, my dear," he turned to Hermione, "are very neatly dressed, and everything coordinated; I see an only child who has had to stand up for herself quite a lot-you're accustomed to looking out for Harry and making decisions for the group, but you tend to look at your hands or the window a lot, which suggests some deep-seated insecurity... Difficulty with parents, perhaps? Let me guess: they never understood your magic abilities, so you've often wondered if they'd like you better if you had been normal."

Hermione blushed, and Ron gaped. John just shook his head; Sherlock could be such a show-off sometimes. Privately, John reasoned it had something to do with wanting to be the smartest person in the room. It produced a satisfactory response from the three wizards-in-training.

"Blimey!" Ron spluttered, "You sure you're not a wizard after all? That was bloody brilliant!"

"Tell me," Sherlock glowed with the praise even as he kept talking as if he hadn't heard, "have there been any new developments since Harry's departure?"

Hermione shook her head. "No; things pretty much quieted down after Harry left. They still haven't found Emory, though."

"Are Fudge and the other Inquisitors still there?" asked Harry.

"Yes," she answered, "but it doesn't look like they'll last the week. I would not be surprised if they all packed up as soon as tomorrow. Precious little they can do at Hogwarts, and they'd probably rather be back in their own homes instead of here." She glanced nervously in Sherlock's direction and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

"So what's the plan, then?" John queried. "Sherlock and I go in, tell the Headmaster we're investigating the disappearance, and start gathering evidence?"

The three schoolmates shared a glance.

"Not exactly," Hermione began reluctantly.

"Hogwarts is a magic school, and it's protected," Harry explained. "Muggles aren't usually allowed... The Ministry of Magic has taken great pains not to expose the existence of the school to anyone non-magic. We might pass you off as a Squib..."

"A what?" John asked.

"That's what people are called when their parents are witches and wizards but they are not," Hermione answered. "I know a place in Diagon Alley where we can get some official-looking badges, and Ron's father works for the ministry; he can get copies of the official documents, right Ron?" she nudged her friend.

Ron nodded enthusiastically. "You know, I've been thinking, Mr. Holmes could pass for a bloody-good Divinations Inspector. That'll satisfy most of the professors, I think."

Hermione agreed, "A Divinations Inspector commissioned by the Ministry of Magic to discern the true culprit behind these strange events... That actually might work."

Harry nodded, "Okay, then. Let's everybody meet back here tonight, so Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson can be ready to enter Hogwarts tomorrow morning."

Everyone nodded and dispersed to their rooms.

* * *

***A/N: To answer a few questions: Based on the events of the series, I'm thinking this story takes place in between _Order of the Phoenix_ and _Half-Blood Prince_. In other words, Snape is the Defense of Dark Arts teacher, and no Umbridge. (Pretty sure Sherlock would kill her and make it look like an accident... which doesn't reflect very well on him, so I'd be very glad not to have to write her as a character) Oh boy! So many good ideas... I think I have what I need to start writing! -KM**


	7. Chapter 7: Welcome To Hogwarts

***A/N: Okay, so this _isn't _exactly The Chapter You've Been Waiting For... but that's Coming Up Next! -KM  
**

* * *

Hermione returned that evening to the inn where Sherlock and John would spend the night. She handed over two badges in slim leather wallets.

"They're just general Ministry medals, because technically there isn't really a Department of Divination, but it's near enough to Magical Law Enforcement that it should pass."

Harry glanced toward the door. "Where's Ron?"

In answer to his question, a cloud of purple-green smoke billowed out of the chimney, and a ginger-colored head materialized through the smog. Ron appeared, coughing madly and brushing a powdery substance from his jersey. "Sorry I'm late," he said, brushing his hair from his eyes. "I might have been pegged by a couple Inquisitors, so I had to dodge them before I could make a proper exit."

"Down the chimney?" John spluttered, none too happy with the foreign substance now scattered over the surface of his tea.

Ron gave him a queer glance. "No, that's the Floo-oh!" He glanced over his shoulder as if realizing for the first time that the Floo Network of the Wizarding World used an entrance remarkably like the fireplace that usually stood at the indoor portion of a chimney. "Well, yes, ordinarily it's a chimney, but with the Floo Powder, see-"

"Explain later," Sherlock cut in, "I don't want to waste another day. Have you got the papers?"

Ron hesitated, sighed, and laid a single sheaf upon the table. "I could only get one copy, I'm sorry. Looks like one of you will be staying out here."

Sherlock smiled benignly. "Yes, I know. Miss Granger and myself will be the ones to enter Hogwarts, while you will stay out here and help John keep watch over Harry."

_"What?"_ No one, least of all John, was expecting this arrangement in the least.

Sherlock spoke casually, as if he and his associate had discussed it all over lunch. "Of course we can't all go back. Harry is as good as expelled, and leaving him here with only, as you term it, a _Muggle_ would be like setting up a tin soldier to watch a baby."

Neither Harry nor John appreciated this metaphor, but Sherlock remained oblivious as he plunged ahead.

"I must go in and observe the crime scene. Harry is not protected unless by another wizard; who else but the young Master Weasley, whom I dare say would far rather be tasked with protecting Harry Potter than become the sole target of his chief tormentor, one _Draco Malfoy_?"

The name produced the desired effect. Ron glanced at Harry and nodded.

"Besides," said Sherlock, standing up, "in case anything happens, I think it would be good to have a wizard I can trust to look after Harry on the outside. Is everything settled, then? Very good; we shall be off just after breakfast."

The quintet spent the night at the inn, and after a light breakfast, Holmes and Hermione departed.  
They took a cab out to the edge of a deep wood.

"Here is close enough," Hermione murmured.

"Are there no roads to Hogwarts," Sherlock inquired, "or simply none that Muggles may use?"

Hermione sighed and adjusted her shoulder bag. "This treeline," she said, tracing it with her finger, "is the magic boundary at the very edges of Hogwarts' legal grounds. It's our policy not to let Muggles past here because they wouldn't understand."

Sherlock felt her eyes keenly upon him as they crossed into the forest. "What?" he asked.

She quickly turned her gaze back to the narrow, winding path they followed. "I... I don't know," she said softly. "I guess I always thought that any Muggle who crossed the barrier would meet some terrible fate—but nothing's happening to you."

"Of course it isn't," Sherlock muttered, plunging ahead. "It's probably just a myth they tell all the students to keep them from inviting all their Muggle friends to the holiday parties." He made it a few more paces and froze.

Hermione walked up and stopped just behind him, waiting.

"Miss Granger," Sherlock whispered, "Can you tell me what sort of creatures those are?"

Hermione peered into the mist. A carriage approached, drawn by the invisible thestrals and meant to carry them into Hogwarts. "It's just a carriage," she told him. "That's our ride into the school."

"Yes, I can see the _carriage_," Sherlock kept his voice level, but he strained to do so-if John were present, he would know just how astonished Sherlock felt in that moment. "I'm talking about the animal _pulling_ the carriage; can't you see it?"

Hermione shook her head as the carriage approached and climbed aboard. "It's probably a trick of the light," she said. "No one can actually see thestrals; they're said to be visible only to those who-" Abruptly, she stopped speaking, clapped her mouth shut, stared at the man sitting across from her for one long moment, and then turned away.

Sherlock watched in the dying light of sunset as Hogwarts rose into view. The impossible turrets, the wide walls-he wondered to himself how the architecture of such a building could remain intact for an entire millennium. The carriage pulled to a halt and Hermione stepped out.

She took a deep breath. "Here goes," she said to the detective with a hopeful grin.

Already, Professors Snape, Dumbledore, and McGonagall stood at the door, waiting to receive him.

Hermione mumbled softly as Sherlock reached into his coat for the enchanted badge she had given him. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Inspector Holmes." She turned to head for the girls' dorm, but paused.

"Oh, just one more thing," she whispered hastily in his ear.

"What's that?"

"Look out for Peeves."

With that, Hermione dashed away.

* * *

"What news do you bring?"

**"There's an Inspector just arrived from London." **

"Muggle?"

**"Do you really think he'd be here if he was? It's unclear; there are rumors that he might be from the Ministry-Divination Department or somesuch-but we haven't heard anything to confirm or deny it." **

"How is the... _Consultant_?"

**"Him? There's no telling. He seemed to know the Inspector; got really excited when they pulled into the courtyard. I don't know why; something tells me this situation is about to get very interesting."**

"Just as long as His Lordship gets what was promised. You sure the Consultant isn't a Mudblood or anything like that?"

**"He could very well be using some kind of charm, the way he gets around the school unnoticed. But no, he just blends in as cool as you please, no magic at all."**

"And the mayhem he wanted?"

**"The boy better not get within sight of Hogwarts if he doesn't want to start a riot. His two friends started out grilling the other students but the Consultant had done his work well enough that nobody in that whole school had a clue. Somehow he's got everyone believing him, when they don't even know he's the one who told them."**

"Excellent; the longer he can remain incognito, the more effective he can be. Are you in communication with him?"

**"Well..."**

"What are you hedging about? Just answer the question: are you or aren't you?"

**"He relies on me for small favors from time to time."**

"That will do; I want you to pass on a message from His Lordship: '_It is done. Summon the Darkness._'"

**"What the blazes is _that_ supposed to mean?"**

"Demmed if I know; just see that he gets it, all right?"

**"I'll do my best."**


	8. Chapter 8: The Game Is On

The tall man in the dark wool jacket fixed his piercing blue eyes on the Headmaster of Hogwarts and said, "Hello there, I am Inspector Sherlock Holmes of the Department of Divination. You must be Albus Dumbledore?"

"I am," said Dumbledore, while McGonagall peered closely at the badge this man carried.  
"Department of Divination, indeed! What might you be doing here, Inspector Holmes?"

Holmes gave a polite nod to the witch. "I have been sent by the Ministry to investigate the recent events surrounding the pending expulsion of one Harry Potter."

The only person on which these words had no perceptible effect was Professor Severus Snape.

Professor McGonagall indicated her opinion on the matter with a flick of her wrist. "And what, pray, have you _divined_ thus far?"

Holmes nodded to the dignified witch. "That remains to be seen, Madam. Might I be allowed to view the student's lodging?"

Professor McGonagall's expression tightened. "Harry's or Emory's?"

"The first-year, Master Harville, of course."

A tiny sigh escaped her. "Oh, of course; follow me."

Holmes paused in the doorway to shake hands with the other professors.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Dumbledore, his bright eyes twinkling merrily behind the billowing white beard.  
Snape only clasped his hand, muttering what could have been a greeting, but Sherlock felt a tingling sensation pass through his hand, up his arm, all the way to his head. He pulled away none too harshly and turned to follow Professor McGonagall.

A high-pitched cackle rang about his ears as he saw to his horror that one McGonagall had become three, all heading down different hallways! As Sherlock was trying to deduce which one to follow, a small body hurtled at his head with a loud, rude sound.

_"Which one, Diviner?_  
_This joke couldn't be finer!_  
_Don't be a whiner—_  
_You'll get left behind-er!"_

Holmes stared at the creature hovering over his head: a small, round body, a wide, toothy grin, and round staring eyes greeted him. Holmes was about to pass by and ignore the strange apparition, but it morphed into a miniaturized version of Holmes himself, pulling a badge out of his pocket.

"Ho-ho! Lookit me! I can get into Hogwarts with my cover spells and magic-scented perfume, but Peeves knows! Peeves can smell an Ugly-Muggle-y from a mile away! You can't outwit a poltergeist!"

"Poltergeist? How bloody perfect!" Holmes didn't like worrying about being exposed right out of the hat. He glanced at Peeves. "Then I guess you'd be the one who created this illusion?"

He pointed to the Three McGonagalls, who had nearly reached the ends of their respective hallways. "Which one will you follow? Pick the wrong one and you'll slam into a wall!"

"And if I pick the right one, what happens? You'll leave me alone?"

"Perhaps!" Peeves stuck out his tongue and wagged it as his eyes rolled around in his head.

Holmes studied the three figures. At a glance they were identical, but peering closely, Holmes could see a faint, wavering sheen over two of the women. He chose the one on the right, which had no sheen. Peeves and the other two illusions vanished in a burst of flatulence.

Sherlock caught up to Professor McGonagall just as she arrived at a room full of staircases at impossible angles. As Sherlock followed her, the next staircase would automatically connect in the direction they needed, so that one would hardly have to break one's stride. Sherlock saw groups of students, robed and wearing patches of either yellow, green, blue, or red.

McGonagall saw his question and explained. "There are four houses at Hogwarts: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. I am Head of Gryffindor House."

"And Potter?"

"Harry was Gryffindor as well."

"What about the Harville boy?"

"Emory? He vanished before he could be Sorted into a house, so we placed his things in a separate apartment, right here." She gestured to the door directly in front of them. "It's not much, I'm afraid."

Sherlock strode past her and into the sparse room. "I've found people by the evidence of a single shoe; I think I can find Emory Harville with the clues of his bag."

"We have tried every searching spell we can think of, because, with his things here, he must still be at the school," said McGonagall as Holmes turned the bag upside down and spread the contents on the bed. "We've turned up nothing."

A set of clothes, some chocolates, and a DVD, Holmes saw. He turned the DVD over to see its title. He gasped.

Staring at him from the cover was the last face he wanted to see. The DVD was called "_Storytime With Richard Brook_." Holmes felt lightheaded and overwhelmed with terror. If he was after Harry-but it couldn't be possible! He had died on that rooftop, hadn't he. Holmes had seen... What had he seen? The DVD cover mocked him with that wide grin. The chocolates, too... Holmes recalled the harrowing race to discredit him: _two children, poisoned chocolates, and a screaming young girl-_-

"Inspector Holmes?" McGonagall drew him back to the present. "What is it?"

"Get me a telephone!" Holmes charged out of the room, and the staircases almost sensed his urgency, providing him a straight path down to the ground floor.

"Inspector, Hogwarts doesn't have a telephone! There's a direct line to the Minstry of Magic and that's it!"

Holmes had already pulled out his mobile and pressed the first number on speed dial.

"Whaddaya want, Holmes?"

"Oh, sorry, Lestrade. Wrong number."

He hit the correct button this time.

"This is John."

"John, is Harry with you?"

"Erm, yeah... we're just hanging out in the town. Ron's here too, if you wanted to know."

Holmes stopped, overcome with the importance of his instructions. "John, listen to me carefully: do not, under any circumstances, let Harry out of your sight! Don't let him eat or drink anything you haven't seen for yourself!"

"Why? What's wrong?"

_"He's here."_

Silence reigned as the full effect washed over the line. Then... "_Bloody hell."_

"I should have known this would happen. I'll have to stay a bit longer to see if I can't find signs that take the suspicion off Harry, but I should be able to be back tomorrow and we can discuss what to do about it."

"But Sherlock-I thought he died! I was _there _Sherlock! I heard the shot!"

"I know, John! I _saw him eat the damn bullet!_ I don't know how he did it-but now he's at Hogwarts-and he's after Harry."

"Be careful, Sherlock."

"You too, John."

* * *

In a long-secluded corner of Hogwarts, a pale-haired young man waited. Not even the ghosts stirred this far in the recesses, and that was exactly what the student wanted. He stood next to a tall black cupboard covered in strange carvings. Anticipation rippled through his arm like an electric current as he reached out to touch it. Closing his eyes and whispering softly, he said the spell.  
Before he had quite finished, he heard the door creak open of its own accord. Draco Malfoy opened his eyes to see what was the matter.

"Boo."

The young man threw himself backward with a cry as an older man with a grey suit and greasy black hair calmly stepped out of the cabinet. Draco fumbled for his wand and waved it at the intruder.

"_Stupe_-"

Before he could get the word out, the man reached for him and snatched the wand away. Draco was defenseless as the man grinned at him. He paused to study the wand he had just taken.  
"So this is it?" he mused. "A real magic wand? Let's see how it works, shall we? _Mobilicorpus_!"

Suddenly Draco seemed to lose all sense of gravity as the ground fell away and his body turned upside-down in midair.

"What do you think you're doing?" Draco shrieked. "Stop this at once! Who are you? Help! Somebody-"

"_Silencio_!" The man barked, and Draco's voice died in his throat. He released the _mobilicorpus_ spell, and Draco landed in a quivering heap on the floor. He stared at the man, unable to make a sound.

"My name is Jim Moriarty," said the man, "and I'm a cousin of _His_."

Draco felt enough dread in this man's presence not to need any explanation concerning the relative in question. He tried to ask something, but he still could not speak. Instead, he pointed to himself with a questioning look.

"Tom said you'd be able to tell me everything I need to know to destroy Harry Potter-he assured me you had what it will take to help me do it. Is this true?"

Draco tried to speak his answer, but couldn't, because of the charm placed on him. He nodded vigorously.

"Very good." Moriarty grinned like a schoolboy. "I shall need to know everything you know about Harry Potter."

Draco opened his mouth willingly enough, but no sound escaped his lips.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Oh, I forgot; _Vox_!"

"-parents were students, Lily and James Potter. They were a few years ahead of Tom Riddle, and teased him a lot, so when he got powerful enough he wanted revenge..."


	9. Chapter 9: A Word With Peeves

Holmes sat in the large dining hall and tried not to stare at the floating candles or the roving ghosts that pervaded the dining hall. Instead, he fixated on the one thing that mattered most to his investigation:

Moriarty was here. There was no doubt that Moriarty had poisoned the Inquisitor and kidnapped Emory, but he had done those things so as to cast ultimate suspicion on Harry. These people didn't know Moriarty; hell, they didn't even know the first thing about conducting a thorough investigation. Sherlock placed his hands together, lost in thought. The emphasis on magic these people had would definitely pose an interesting variable; Moriarty had struck so keenly and with such force that there was little Sherlock could see that would reasonably point to an outside job and exonerate Harry.

"Didja miss me?"

Sherlock flinched as the cackling, high-pitched voice sounded in his ear, reminding him of that infernal day when Moriarty-or at the time they had assumed it to be a reasonable facsimile-had taken over all the video screens in London.

"Didja miss me? Didja miss me?"

Peeves the poltergeist was back, toturing Sherlock as if comissioned by the Dark Lord. He dive-bombed Serlock's head, and everywhere he looked, there was that pale, awkward face again. "Didja miss me? Didja miss me?"

"Enough!" Sherlock roared, attracting the attention of nearby teachers.  
"Peeves," he said in a softer tone, "why don't you go bother someone else? Like someone in Slytherin for example. There," he designated the pale-blond boy known as Draco Malfoy. "Why don't you sneak over there, find out what they're talking about?"

"Why should I?" the irrepressible poltergeist retorted. "What makes you think I'd want to spy on people for you?"

Holmes dropped his voice even lower. "Because I am Harry Potter's last chance."

"POTTY-WEE POTTER?" Peeves shrieked in his face, then disappeared with a loud pop before anyone could confirm what he'd just said or why.

When Peeves did not return, everyone shrugged and returned to eating, but Sherlock happened to glance over to the wall behind Draco's head, and see the curtains waver ever so slightly, as if a small, round body tried to conceal itself in them.

Later that evening, as Holmes was headed to the small apartment the staff had provided for him, he happened upon an old man with lanky gray hair and a mongrel of a cat. He leered at Sherlock in the dim light of his lantern.  
"Curfew," he muttered. "No one should be wandrin' these 'alls."

Sherlock stiffened. "I am Inspector Sherlock Holmes, of—"

"I know who y'say y'are," The man rasped, "but there's many folk who say they are one thing but they ain't." He stepped closer and leered at Holmes, "And old Filch can smell a fraud a mile away."

The name sparked a memory in Sherlock's mind... Harry talking to him on the train... _"There's the old caretaker, Filch; he's a Squib, so he can't do magic..."_

"You think I'm lying?" Sherlock challenged, a smile playing about his mouth. "Try me! The Veritas spell should do the trick. Go ahead."

Filch scowled, "That's not a real spell!"

"And how would you know?" Sherlock shot back, hardly allowing himself to think before he reacted with all the bluster of a Ministry official. "You're only a Squib... A Squib who has no purpose here but to spy and blackmail."

The glare vanished and surprise took its place at the glaring accusation.  
"You've got no right-"

"Oh haven't I?" Sherlock forged ahead, noting the way Filch's eyes shifted to his feet and to the corners, while the cat paced around Sherlock's ankles. "That's a very singular animal," Sherlock prodded the tabby with his toe. "What's her name?"

His outrage temporarily subsided as Finch smiled. "'Er name's Mrs. Norris."

"Hmm, I'm sure a cat like that would know her way around places in this school no one would dream of looking."

Filch nodded, "She's got them pussy feet; nobody hears her comin', and when they sees her, they can only wonder how long she's been listening."

"And I bet she hears a lot of things, doesn't she?" Sherlock now bent down and stroked the matted fur of Mrs. Norris' back. "If only she could speak, what stories she could tell, eh?"

Filch lapsed into suspicious silence, giving a noncommittal grunt to avoid saying too much. But Sherlock had already seen as much as he needed.

"What's that?" he pretended to talk to Mrs. Norris. "Oh, you do speak! forgive me, I... What? Sending you sneaking after children? For no reason? Jolly thankless task, that is!" He paused, noting the hungry, fidgeting demeanor that struck the old caretaker.

Filch's eyes nearly bulged out of his head as he fought over whether this man was truly speaking with his cat or not. Sherlock could read his thoughts plainly on his face: _Perhaps she can speak, but a Squib like me wouldn't hear her. I wonder if I can learn a spell to do that._

"Tell me, Mrs. Norris," Sherlock went on, "who have you been following lately?"

Filch hesitated before grabbing the cat up in his arms; who knew what an Inspector of Divination might do to him if he displeased him?

Sherlock drilled him with an icy stare. "Mr. Filch, I now have the names of several students whom you have been extorting, sending Mrs. Norris to track their every move and then abusing your connection with her to blackmail them. I propose this behavior cease immediately, or I shall be forced to take action."  
Filch shut his mouth tight and shuffled off down the hall.

"INSPECTOR OUT OF BED! INSPECTOR IN THE HALL!"

Sherlock fought to maintain his composure as one very cocksure poltergeist sprang into view shrieking loudly.  
"Shut up, Peeves!" Sherlock snapped.

Instantly, Peeves seemed to fold his body like the lid of a box, literally shutting up. He burst back open with a rude noise and obnoxious cackle.

_"The Inspector, almost crying,_  
_Sent Peeves to do some spying:_  
_The students have been prying,_  
_Now the rumors are a-flying!"_

Sherlock glanced down the hall where Filch had vanished.  
"Not here, Peeves; follow me."  
Sherlock led him down to the apartment. When he had shut the door, he turned around.  
"Now what's all this about prying? What rumors have you heard?"

Peeves was dancing a jig in midair, chanting,

_"Lock your windows, bolt your doors,_  
_But he'll get you from under your floors!"_

Sherlock glanced quickly, but the floors here were flagstone; nothing was coming through that, was it?  
"What are you talking about, you insufferable imp?"

"The Dark, haha!" Peeves cackled. "Peeves caught the buzz from the Snakeheads, all right! The Nameless One has nothing on the First Darkness! They say Precious Potty got hisself booted on purpose, so that the Dark would come, and they'd throw themselves at his feet to get him to return and save them! The Chosen One becomes the Golden Boy Hero!"

Sherlock frowned; something didn't add up. Everything he'd learned about Harry bespoke a young man desperate to be normal and to blend in; the duplicitous ambition Peeves described seemed the complete opposite. Could it be possible he had duped Sherlock and John?

"Tell me more about this Dark," Sherlock told the wild poltergeist.

Peeves did something quite uncharacteristic: he held very still.  
"They call it Old Evil," he whispered, "and it hasn't been spoken of since Good first came into the world. They say that when there was nothing else that existed, there was Old Evil. The Dark Lord and all Dark Wizards try to copy it, try to tap into it, but the True Evil is too much for any one wizard to handle. They're all tame compared to him!"

Holmes began pacing. "Well if he's so powerful, how does it figure that Harry thinks he can stop him?"

"He can't!" Peeves squealed. "He'll die trying, and they'll build shrines and statues of him, and he'll be known as the Boy Who Tried!" With a loud whirr, Peeves suddenly vanished from sight and did not reappear.

Sherlock lay upon the bed, but the very wind seemed to whisper to him all night long:

_"It's raining, it's storming;_  
_Old Evil is forming!_  
_The cloisters are humming;_  
_Old Evil is coming..."_

* * *

***A/N: Hope you enjoyed the latest update! Sorry that took so long... And my sincerest apologies if I didn't get Peeves quite correct... that's what was taking so long... I almost wanted to work on this a bit longer before updating, but I wasn't sure how... if anyone has any more suggestions for Peeves, let me know! -KM **


	10. Chapter 10: Toil and Trouble

The next morning, the students of Hogwarts sat at their tables awaiting their morning owl post. Sherlock sat at the table nursing a cup of coffee. He winced as the nicotine patches lining his arm began itching again; they had never irritated his skin like this, so why now? It was the last thing he needed!

The soft hooting of the owls called his attention upwards. He looked and saw the large birds sail through the large opening near the ceiling-

Where at once they morphed into squawking black crows that dive-bombed the screaming students.  
Sherlock caught his breath; had he witnessed his first bit of actual magic? (excluding the interactive ghosts, of course) It wasn't some trick of the light, for there were still owls entering the room, but three seconds later the owls actually became crows.

"Ooooh! Ooooh!" Someone down the table wailed.  
Sherlock identified Professor Sybill Trewlaney, Hogwarts' own Divination instructor. She had her hands clapped over her ears and her head lolled as she watched the black scavengers in abject terror.

"An omen! An omen!" she cried. "Don't you feel it, Inspector?"

It took several seconds for Sherlock to realize she addressed him.  
"Oh, erm, yes, very distressing," he answered.

"What do you see, Sybill?" asked Dumbledore, evidently taking this woman's ravings very seriously.

"Such Evil!" She moaned. "So very Dark!"

Sherlock stiffened; this was just what Peeves had been saying the night before.

"Ancient Evil," Trelawney went on, "very old and black as a crow's wing. An omen!"  
Her words seemed to have a profound effect on the faculty.

Dumbledore turned to the stony-faced teacher on his right. "What say you, Severus? Is some Dark Art at work?"

McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were busy transforming the owls back to their original forms. Snape watched them carefully. "It would certainly seem that way," he acknowledged. "Though I would think our _visiting Inspector_ might be better equipped to tell us who might be behind this," he fixed Sherlock with a firm glare.

Sherlock glared right back. "Oh, it's evil all right," he said, "but the mastermind behind the whole thing is not one of your smoke-and-potions magicians!"

"I beg your pardon!" spluttered Flitwick, preparing his wand.

Dumbledore stilled him with a glance. "You deny that there are spells happening around this school, then?" he asked patiently.

"I-" Holmes stopped, caught in the conflict of belief. What he saw was clearly not done with mirrors or sleight of hand, but... Surely magic was a thing of fiction, not something that a "consulting criminal" might use to cover his tracks!  
"The visions are not yet clear to me," he said, which seemed to mollify his hearers. "I will have to... to _meditate_ on them a little while longer. Excuse me."

Suddenly, a roll of parchment dropped from the ceiling and landed on Sherlock's plate. He looked up as another owl flew overhead, but at least the professors had succeeded at the counter-spells, because all the crows were now owls, and no more owls traded form.  
Sherlock opened the parchment. It bore only one word:

_**Alone.**_

His spine tingled; what manner of taunt was this? Was Moriarty daring to meet him here at Hogwarts? Did he want Sherlock and John to turn over Harry? Was he implying that Sherlock was trying to solve this mystery all on his own?  
"Well?" McGonagall demanded sharply, approaching the table as she breathed heavily after the ordeal. "Hedwig gave you that note; what does it say?"  
Hedwig... Harry's owl? Of course if it had a note intended for Harry, it must deliver it, so why not to Holmes, Harry's representative?

"It says ALONE," answered Sherlock, returning to ponder the note.

**_A lad._**

By Jove! As soon as he read the word aloud, it changed! Holmes realized that there wasn't just a few words, but a whole message contained in this parchment. He read them out to the professors as Dumbledore dismissed the students to their classes, at least the ones for whom the teacher was still available.

"A lad... A lack... A lead!"

Sherlock raised his eyes from the paper. The ones that remained were Snape, McGonagall, Flitwick, Pomfrey, and Dumbledore. They all watched him nervously. The last line of the message began to appear, but unlike the others, the words did not disappear as soon as they were read.

"A little along a lock... A leak!"

Everyone sat in chilled silence.  
"What does it mean?" whispered Madame Pomfrey.

Flitwick adjusted his spectacles nervously. "Perhaps the first line refers to what has passed," he guessed.

Sherlock's mind began turning the syllables in his head.  
"Indeed," he said. "Alone could refer to Harry, who was left alone after his parents died."

"Alone, a lad," Pomfrey quoted, "Ah me, I can't help thinkin' o' that poor lad who was nicked before the Sorting!"

"Could that be the lack, then?" Flitwick suggested. "The school lacked one student."

"A lead..." Sherlock mused. "I uncovered clues that led me to believe I knew who had taken the missing student-"

"But all evidence points to Potter," Snape objected.

"Circumstantial," Sherlock retorted, tapping the paper. "Just what the real culprit wants us to think. This confirms that Harry is not to blame; do you really think he could do this from outside the school?"

Snape's dour expression did not falter. "I would not put it past the boy to instigate something foolish on his way out that might summon an evil like the First Darkness everyone is talking about, so that, by necessity, we would be forced to recall him to undo whatever he has done!" Snape pointed to the paper with his wand and commanded, "_Magnificato_!" Instantly, the small parchment unfolded like an origami puzzle till it was ten times it's original size. The words inscribed on it were large enough to read from across the room.  
"_This_ is your challenge, Inspector!" Snape thundered, pointing at the words. "What is _Harry_ planning now, and which lock will he strike at first?"

Sherlock glanced over the words... But the real focus of his study was the wizard standing before him; there was something desperate behind the impenetrable stone of the man's face. Harry had mentioned often how Snape seemed intent on becoming his enemy, even though he was a schoolfellow of Harry's father; did Snape actually believe his friend's son capable of such vindictive behavior?

A cry echoed down the halls of Hogwarts. The voice was rough, but all of the teachers reacted with alarm.  
"What the dickens is Filch raving about?" McGonagall demanded as everyone moved toward the door of the dining hall.

Filch burst in at a shambling run when they were only halfway.  
"Libr'y!" he rasped. "Some divvil's gone an' sacked the libr'y!"

"The Library?" Flitwick squawked.

Sherlock and the five wizards stood at the door. A tall witch with an angular nose and two-pointed hat surveyed the damage demurely.  
"Dear me," she sighed, "it will take years to sort through this mess."

Sherlock glanced around the room, absently wondering if Peeves hadn't been responsible. Desks were upended, lamps smashed, books strewn in large piles, and pages dispersed willy-nilly. There did not seem to be a single shelf untouched. He scanned the area. If this was a library, it would undoubtedly have a system of organization, one that the intruder would know, since they obviously trashed the place to hide the fact that they no doubt stole a book or two.  
"There are books missing," he mused to the librarian-witch.

She cocked an eyebrow in quiet approval. "Indeed; I knew that the minute I arrived. The strangest thing, though, is the sort of books that the intruder took-"

"Nothing from the restricted section, I hope, Irma," Dumbledore suggested.

Miss Pince nodded gravely. "A few of the darker spellbooks, naturally; one can only hope that the fool who took them isn't prepared to actually use them. What I can't understand, though is-"

"Why would he take history books?" Holmes finished her question from around behind a pile of books, all of which, he noticed, dealt with wizard lore and traditions from ancient times. Of course, a school like Hogwarts no doubt carried records of its own history-but those book were conspicuously absent from the mayhem.  
Meanwhile, everyone was watching Holmes at work with just the right amount of regard.

"Yes," Irma answered. "A dark spellbook might be more useful with one on magical creatures, or some of the older books; Hogwarts is not a very old school compared to the long tradition of magic... And if what they say is true, and Harry Potter did manage to summon Old Evil-"

"_There is no First Darkness_!" Sherlock spat the words before he could stop himself. Would there be no end to the rumors?  
A loud squawk interrupted the shocked silence that followed the outburst. A large bird covered in feathers like tongues of flame glided through the open doorway.

"Fawkes!" Dumbledore cried, "Oh, good heavens, be careful!"

"Don't let him too near the books!" Miss Pince cried in alarm.

Dumbledore shooed the bird out into the hallway, where he allowed it to land on his arm.  
"Fawkes," he spoke to it, "what are you doing outside your cage? I thought my study..." His voice trailed off and the group started down the hall to the Headmaster's study.

Sure enough, the door stood wide open. "A little" of some mysterious substance had been spread "along a lock" on the door, and both the latch and the jamb were missing. Sherlock scraped a sample off and tipped it in one of the plastic vials he always had handy.

"This is unconscionable," McGonagall muttered. "The library, the Headmaster's study-what else could the miscreant invade?"

Dumbledore finished his assessment of the study. "Nothing has been disturbed," he confirmed, "but as long as I cannot seal the door, everything in it is vulnerable."

Sherlock was going over the trail of clues in his mind. The history books he knew would be necessary for someone like Moriarty who no doubt knew about as much as Sherlock did about this place. The breaching of the study was merely for show, like breaking into the Tower and donning the crown jewels, a "nothing" crime that was merely icing on the cake for the true crime... If Moriarty, being non-magic (Sherlock hoped), wanted to appear magic and at least be able to inflict the same level of harm as a wizard...

He snapped his fingers. "Does this school have a cache of magical equipment, or a potions cabinet of some sort?" he asked.

Snape looked aghast. "_Potions_?" he gasped, and swept back down the hall to the Potions classroom. Sure enough, the lock on his potions cabinet appeared to have been jimmied, and Sherlock took another sample, not doubting that it was the same substance. Only an armful of bottles remained on the shelf, mostly happiness charms and love potions-things a malevolent wizard would have no use for.

Snape whirled upon Sherlock. "Well?" he seethed. _"_Can you not divine who is responsible for _this_?"

Sherlock examined the cabinet closely. Whoever had broken into all these places didn't leave any fingerprints-but the detective already had a suspect in mind.

"It is not clear," he said, "so I'm going to have to verify with the source. Bring me Draco Malfoy. I would like to question him."


	11. Chapter 11: Interrogating a Wizard

The teachers allowed Sherlock to use one of the empty classrooms. The fair-haired young wizard awaited him at one of the desks. Sherlock walked in and closed the door.

Draco glanced at him and deliberately slouched in his chair. Sherlock planted himself in front of the boy and stared at him for a very long time. Draco stared back.

"Who are you supposed to be?" he sneered.

Sherlock sneered right back. "I'm the man who is going to prove you did it."

Draco sat forward, but kept his fingers interlocked and his hands upon the desk. "You can't prove anything!" he said, but his voice tightened, betraying him.

Sherlock smiled easily. "I can prove anything that I need to prove," he told the young man.

Draco's sneer returned. "You're that Inspector bloke aren't you? How come my father is on the Council and he's never heard of the Department of Divination?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "That's not how interrogating works, Draco; I ask the questions. What can you tell me about the vanishing locks?"

Draco blinked. "The what?"

Sherlock made a big show of pounding on the desk. "Don't play games with me, Draco; just answer the question!" he thundered.

Draco jerked back as if he'd been shot. "I don't know what you're talking about," he cried frantically.

Sherlock did not relent. "Yes you do. You see, the library has a distinct smell to it, like it must be in the books or something." This was all hogwash, but Sherlock didn't see any kind of doubt on the lad's face, so he pressed in closer as he spoke. "I asked the librarian and she confirmed that the smell is released when the books are abnormally disturbed." By now, their faces were only inches apart. Sherlock sniffed for good measure, and grimaced. "You reek of it."

"You're bluffing," spluttered Draco, but his eyes were wide, his breath was short, and his chin was trembling.

Sherlock didn't back off, not yet. "Am I? Then why was the lock on Dumbledore's study removed and yet the culprit never set foot in that room? Any other intruder would have gone right in and had a field day with whatever that man keeps. There are countless marvelous magical items in that place, yet it was untouched. That tells me it was a student, one who felt guilty about invading the office of the only person in the world who actually cared about him."

Draco lunged forward with such vigor that Sherlock did back off this time. "That's a lie!" the young man shrieked.

Sherlock stood straight and resumed an air of professionalism. "Draco, I know all about your parents; they are high important people with nothing but contempt for their sniveling son. Dumbledore, on the other hand, speaks of the potential he sees in you..." Sherlock let his voice trail off and watched Draco's face change when the detective mentioned Dumbledore. He finished, "And how you continually waste it on petty things like bullying Harry." Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and continued in a lighter tone, "Which is what led me to conclude the study was only a trial run for the real goal: the Potions cabinet. You had no trouble stealing from that, now, did you?" He winked at Draco as if he thought the boy was nothing more than a cheeky prankster.

Draco ignored the pretense and placed his guard up again. "I've told you I don't know-"

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief containing a glass vial with some liquid in it. "Do you remember seeing this?" he asked, knowing already the answer that would come.

Draco remained unperturbed. "No," he answered truthfully.

"Professor Snape confirms he had it locked away. And yet when I walked in, it was laying on the floor..." He used the handkerchief to hold the vial in front of the light. "With your fingerprints all over it."

Draco's mouth flew open. "That's impossible! I used-" He immediately stopped when he realized what had just happened.

Sherlock smiled like a spider with a fly. "Gloves? Your wand? Speaking of which," he gestured toward the wooden handle sticking out of Draco's pocket, "hand it over."

Draco's hand covered the grip protectively. "What the hell do you need my wand for?" he demanded.

"To turn you into a ferret," Sherlock sneered. "No, I hear there's a spell Professor McGonagall knows for finding out the last spell cast by a wand."

Draco paused for only a minute before tossing the wand onto the desk contemptuously. "Go ahead; you won't find anything," he said.

Sherlock picked it up and tested its weight, evaluating the polished black surface. "Why? Because this isn't the wand you used?"

Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Are we finished? I need to get back to class."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to his face as he still held the wand. "Why?"

Draco snorted. "Why? Because I am a student, you moron!"

Sherlock finally gave the lad his full attention. "How did he get you to help him? Draco Malfoy, probably the most prominent student to walk these halls, doing the bidding of a total stranger? What did he tell you he has that gives him precedence over you?" He laid the wand on the table and raised his fingers to his lips, studying the subject carefully. "Fancy clothes, preferential treatment, family rich enough to get anything you could ever want, so it can't be any one object-social standing?"

Draco's lips twitched. Sherlock plunged ahead.

"Family connection?"

A slight wince around the eyes. He was getting warmer.

"Connection with your family? No," he saw Draco's face relax at the misguided assumption, "connection with someone more powerful..."

There was no mistaking the fear in Draco's face now; it was the same look everyone got when anyone mentioned, "the Dark Lord, perhaps?"

Draco's lips parted slightly, and his breath quickened. "Please..." suddenly, he was no longer the posh, sneering accomplice, but a vulnerable little child. "He's given him more power than a Muggle should have. He gave him the power to summon The Darkness." Draco's voice was barely a whisper, and even then, the words came with great effort.

Sherlock watched him closely as his brain churned out everything he knew about Moriarty. "What's his master plan through all this? Why go through all this trouble, spreading rumors and stealing books and potions?"

Draco shrugged; he was through resisting the questions. "He never said; he just made me do it."

"Can you tell me where he is hiding?" asked Sherlock.

Draco shook his head. "I know he's here somewhere; he just appears when he wants me to do something. I never know where he's coming from."

"What's his next move?"

"I don't know. He's gotten really interested in the Hogwarts faculty and the effects of different potions and such. I think he really means to unleash hell on this school, but I don't really know why."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But you're helping him anyway," he noted with scorn.

Draco threw up his hands in exasperation. "I swear, I didn't do any of the things Harry got blamed for! All he wanted from me was to learn about Harry-"

Sherlock latched onto that small mention. "Information on Harry? Why? Why come to you?"

"Because I know Harry best!" Draco snapped. "Our fathers were schoolfellows, and I've been attending this school with Harry for the last six years, so I know all about the Potters."

Sherlock scoffed, "And it helps that you're in league with Harry's mortal enemy too, doesn't it? Did he ever tell you where he's hidden Emory?"

The frown returned. "Who?"

"The boy who disappeared, don't be stupid!" Sherlock sneered.

Draco shrugged. "I never knew anything about him; I don't even know where Mr. Moriarty is staying."

Sherlock leaned on the desk again. To be so close and yet so far... "But you know this school; you know the best places for skulking about, the best corners and cubbyholes for hiding things you don't want found. And so, Master Malfoy, you're going to help me find him-find them both."

Just then, the door flew open, and McGonagall swept in.  
"That's quite enough, Inspector Holmes," she said. "All students must return to their houses immediately. We will have dinner sent to your common rooms. Please don't try to leave, and for heaven's sake, stay out of the great hall!"  
She bustled Draco toward Slytherin Hall, and waited to make sure he entered.

"Professor?" Sherlock asked. "What is it?" A sense of dread seemed to hang thickly over the school, like an eiderdown quilt in the heat of summer. "Why did you tell him to stay away from the great hall?"

"Why, Inspector Holmes," she turned on him and gazed wonderingly, "I thought you were in Divination; must you ask so many questions?" The corners of her mouth tucked into a smirk. She didn't wait for any kind of explanation, true or untrue. "There's been a development; come and see."

The pair swept down the hallway to the great hall. The other four Heads were already there. Snape glanced sidelong at Holmes as they entered.

"Well?" he demanded. "Are the visions any clearer now?"

Holmes clenched his jaw to keep his mouth from falling open. The tapestries on the wall smoldered underneath flaming letters scrawled on the wall in four lines of verse.

**_"WHEN THE MORNING HOUR_**  
**_STANDS ON ITS HEAD,_**  
**_THE CHOSEN ONE_**  
**_WILL SOON BE DEAD!"_**


	12. Chapter 12: Lockdown

That evening, Holmes sat staring at what remained of the message: dark scorch marks forming the chilling rhyme. Many students who once greeted Harry congenially were now bragging about what they would do to him if he returned.

"Hogwarts is just fine," Ravenclaw Prefect Desirae Faulkner informed a first-year, "we didn't used to have such trouble with evil magic before Potter came along; I bet this Old Evil is all just a hoax, and as long as we don't let Harry back here, it will all just blow away."

Sherlock shook his head. He could never find out who was behind all this if they kept using magic. At least he could be sure that it wasn't Moriarty—unless it turned out that his arch nemesis was a practicing wizard. If he could wreak havoc like this on a magical school, why did he resort to the methods he used in attempting to set up and kill Sherlock?

A scraping, grunting noise distracted him from his musings. Holmes crept down the hallway to the general study hall, where the noise seemed to issue from within the large-faced clock against the west wall. As Holmes watched, the number "XII" slowly swung in a circle in sync with the grinding noise, till it was directly upside down. Sherlock noticed that the other numbers had already received similar treatment. Something snapped, and the XII swung back to its natural position, while a small voice behind it swore hotly.

"Peeves? Is that you?" Holmes called.

_"None of your business!"_ Came the reply.

"Come on out," said the detective. "What are you doing?"

Peeves popped forth with a noise and a bad smell—and an important-looking cog from the unreachable recesses of the clock. "Making the hours stand on their heads!" he crowed, and zipped away.

Sherlock shook his head; did Peeves want everyone to think the Dark was real, and moreover succeeding? He studied the clock face. If he hadn't caught Peeves in the act, he might not have noticed anything was wrong; particularly for the hours of 6 and 9. Upside-down the two numbers only looked reversed.  
The minute hand inched toward 11; Sherlock's mind whirred like the gears inside. Even if you took the Arabic numbers, the 6 looked like 9 "standing on its head," or resting on the round portion of the shape. Such an interesting phenomenon...

"Inspector?" a hard voice sounded behind him.  
Sherlock turned his attention to Severus Snape standing behind him. The morose professor stared directly at Sherlock and asked, "Will you be conducting your _divination_ during classes again tomorrow?"

Sherlock blinked; his cover had slipped his mind. He was only glad that he was able to do more investigating than "divining," since he probably could not act properly enough for these folks.

"Of course," he replied quickly, "I shall begin as soon as lessons start."

"If you require, the Tower can be made available during the morning hour," Snape informed him.

_The morning hour stands on its head..._

Holmes stared back at Snape. "What hour would that be?"

If Snape could have looked more bored, he did in that moment. "Nine o'clock sharp, Inspector."

The professor departed, but his words fastened Holmes to the spot.  
_When the morning hour stands on its head..._

Holmes looked back at the clock. The hour hand only stood a few degrees shy of perfectly aligned with the minute hand.  
Holmes turned and strode back toward the common area. Hermione was just headed across the quadrangle.

"Miss Granger!" Holmes called.

She looked up as he reached her side and grabbed her arm.

"You've got to get to Harry, right now!" Holmes pushed her toward the entrance. "Don't ask questions, just go! His life is in danger!"

"Mr. Holmes," she whispered, "are you actually having visions now? I thought the Divination thing was just a cover-"

"I told you, don't ask!" Sherlock snapped. "Get out of here now!"

A thestral-drawn carriage pulled in, as if summoned by Sherlock's urgency. Hermione gasped at the sight of it and glanced in confusion at the detective, but jumped in anyway.

Holmes pulled out his watch. Six o'clock... Nine stood on its head...  
Holmes dug his mobile out of his pocket. His arm itched where the nicotine patch rubbed. Something in the air at Hogwarts played tricks with the effectiveness of the patches; he could not feel them as keenly as he used to. He scratched as he dialed John.

"Hello?"

"John, where is Harry?"

"Sherlock, he's fine, he and Ron are at a book cart just across-" Suddenly there was a massive commotion on the line and Sherlock heard John swear.

Sherlock clutched at his phone. "John?" he almost shouted, "John, what happened? John!"

"It's Harry," John said slowly. "He's just collapsed. I can't feel a pulse. Ron is checking for spells..."

"Hermione should be there soon," Sherlock said. "She can help."

"Yeah, hang on, she's just coming in."

"Put her on."

There was a lot of talking around the mobile.  
"Mr. Holmes?" Hermione's voice came over the line.

"Was it magic?" Holmes asked.

Hermione waited a moment. "No," she answered. "There's nothing we can find."

"Well that's a relief."

"Pardon?"

"Put John back on."

"Sherlock?"

"It's him." Sherlock's voice rang with finality.

John hesitated for a long moment. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Look at the patient, Doctor Watson! What do you see?"

"Um, no punctures, no pulse, no warning signs-This has got to be magic, Holmes, I thought you said he was there at Hogwarts-"

"_Look at the patient_!" Holmes almost shouted. "What do you see?"  
The tense moment crawled past. It was now one minute after six.

"Barbiturates," John finally answered.

"It has to be!" Holmes agreed. "A full barbiturate cocktail. Moriarty must have slipped it to him sometime before-I knew he was behind this from the beginning! _There is no Old Evil!_"

"What?"

"Never mind; can you get him cured?"

"Yeah, I think I can find everything I need."

"Good; call me as soon as he revives."

The moment Holmes hung up the mobile, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Madam Pomfrey stood behind him, wringing her hands anxiously.  
"Please, Inspector," she said, "You're wanted in the dining hall."

She led him in there, and the door closed immediately after him. Dumbledore met him as soon as he entered.  
"Ah, Inspector, thank goodness you are unaffected."

Sherlock frowned, "Unaffected by what?" Finally, he got a good look at the room. All over, students were nodding off or sleeping; some appeared to be hallucinating, and there was a general air of artificial euphoria pervading everything. The place fairly reeked of barbiturates, but-

"Are any of the professors affected?" Holmes asked.

"No," Dumbledore answered. "Whatever malady has struck seems only to affect the students."

Holmes scanned the room. The drugs had to come from somewhere...  
He pointed, "There!"

Even now, a thin green sheen wafted from the floating candles over the main part of the dining area.

Dumbledore followed his finger. "The candles?" he asked. "Someone has tampered with the candles?"

Sherlock scowled. "Moriarty." How had he both poisoned Harry in Dufftown and yet returned in time to infect the entire school?

"Who is Moriarty?" asked the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

"He is my enemy, and I have reason to believe he is the one behind all this effort to make Harry vulnerable."

Dumbledore rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I think you should tell me everything you know about Moriarty. Meanwhile... Minerva?" he signaled Professor McGonagall as she walked by.

She stopped, "Yes, Albus?"

"You and Severus take a few other instructors and place a barrier charm around the school. Whatever this is, we cannot risk it getting out."

"Sir, we have a barrier already," McGonagall pointed out. "How much stronger do you want it?"

Dumbledore's shoulders stooped and his face was ashen. "As strong as you can make it," he answered somberly. "Nothing gets in, and no one gets out. Hogwarts is officially in lockdown." He nodded for Sherlock to follow and proceeded to his study.

Surreptitiously, Holmes slipped his mobile from his pocket and checked it. The screen remained black. He had lost his only connection to the outside world.

Sherlock Holmes was trapped in Hogwarts.

Far away, in a hidden, sealed tower, James Moriarty smiled. Everyone's enemies, sealed up tight in a box neatly wrapped in bright paper.

"Merry Christmas to me," he sighed to himself.


End file.
